It's tough living in a cheeseburger world... especially when you and your husband are unemployed, have a postage stamp as a kitchen and keep kosher. Yet we survive, as I, Reina Kutner, create amazing recipes with very little space. Tune in, and you can follow my life (and my recipes). It may be tough, but we make it work!
Several days ago, I applied to a job at zagat.com, the website for the famous survey that rates restaurants. I applied because I am insanely passionate about food and would love to actually report about it for a living. But I am starting to sense, after applying to a variety of foodie-type jobs, that I am a major turn-off to the foodie world.
Why? Think of the last word of this blog: kosher.
While the pig is the king of the culinary world, there seems to be no place for a woman who refuses to eat it, particularly if it’s on religious grounds. Sure, I may be able to produce dynamite recipes and eat fish and vegetarian when I go out, but what does it matter? I won’t eat your pig, your shellfish or your cheeseburgers.
Yet the vegetarians have objections to me – after all, I do eat meat. And if vegans think I’m giving up my cheese, I will fight them to the death in order to keep my Humboldt Fog.
The truth of the matter is, no matter how hard the kosher world tries and how the mainstream media boasts that kosher is now gourmet, the fact is that being kosher isn’t taken seriously by most foodies. It doesn’t matter how great our wines are or how much we follow French techniques and have wonderful dishes. The truth is that we just can’t seem to win.
We have restaurants that transcend the borders – Tierra del Sur in Oxnard is considered to be a gem in the kosher world, and Solo in New York is considered the tops when it comes to cuisine there. However, they are recognized more as being good food rather than good food that’s kosher. Kosher restaurants seem to be a crapshoot, with many of us settling and saying, “It’s good enough for kosher.”
So what can we do about it? Well, my solution may sound drastic, but the truth of the matter is that we, as kosher people, need to speak with our money. I have written a letter to the restaurants on this blog, but it isn’t enough. Money is what talks, after all.
If there is a place that doesn’t serve good kosher food, don’t spend your money there. Don’t keep them in business when the truth is that they aren’t up to par with the other restaurants. I know that many people in the kosher world don’t have a choice – either they go to the restaurants or they are forced to cook themselves – but we should foster healthy competition. For those in big cities like Los Angeles and New York, where there are a ton of kosher places, I certainly believe that this can be arranged. That also applies to all your kosher products, too – if they’re terrible, don’t buy them. It’s the YBK Kosher Food Challenge.
Please feel free to comment with your favorite kosher restaurants and those which you feel don’t deserve to remain open, yet (shockingly) do. Maybe if we start holding higher standards for our kosher restaurants, they will have a better reputation and make better food, and in turn the word kosher will not be a dirty word for foodies in the world. Who knows?
Meanwhile, I will continue dreaming of the day when there is a “Top Chef” kosher challenge that has all the chef-testants screaming bloody murder because, G-d forbid, they have to live without their beloved pork.
I have certainly been cooking a lot lately. Whether it’s a peach pie for Ari’s grandmother’s 97th birthday or a random dairy dish for a Jewish community event, I have been cooking up a storm. And always, people seem to want to pick my brain about it. How do I cook things correctly on the first try? How do I understand food? And usually, can I teach them how?
The answer usually simple, as more often than not, it comes down to intuition.
I know that sounds like a way out of giving an answer, but it is the most truthful way to approach it. I’m not the most experienced in the kitchen – my knife skills aren’t the best, and I don’t have access to all the freshest ingredients. I can’t move as fast as the chefs on TV. But I have a good palette and recognize flavor, knowing what each element brings to the pot and am able to combine flavors in order to get what I want.
Intuition, for me, is studying every ingredient and unlocking its secrets. Understanding what a lemon can bring to a dish – the acidity, the freshness, even the ability to cook in a ceviche – can bring a new dimension to whatever you’re working with. Comprehending the full nature of ingredients can make it ten times easier to approach a new dish for the first time than if you didn’t understand.
This is where a different element comes in, and one that most people don’t think about when it comes into food: science. Not many people know that I was pretty good at it when I was in high school, so I understand what is coming at me when it comes to food. For example, take milk – if I recipe calls for milk, I understand that there is lactose there, which is a form of sugar. Plus, depending on the milk, I know there will be a little bit of fat in there to work with as well, which provides a slight element of moisture. Therefore, I usually know how milk will react in a dish, particularly when it comes to baking.
When we unlock the nature of our food, we become less afraid to do things that we may never had dared to do. We recognize the flavors and try different things, which create even better dishes. It gives us courage. Sometimes we fail, but part of messing around in the kitchen is producing some duds along with winners; believe me, I have.
I may not be a molecular gastronomy person (and don’t tempt me – I would love to take the kosher world into the wonders of liquid nitrogen ice cream and beads of salad dressing if I could), but I am utterly fascinated by food and everything it can do. When we understand what we are eating, how we are cooking and how each ingredient brings something new to the table, our food becomes that much more special. We need to take advantage of this and savor it all… except for pork, shellfish and cheeseburgers, of course.;-)
On that note, I’m going to use milk and lemon for today’s recipe: tortellini in lemon-cream sauce. P’tayavon!
Reheat the beschamel sauce over low heat. Once heated, add the lemon zest and juice along with the garlic cloves. Adjust the seasonings to taste, then allow to cool and thicken.
Cook the tortellini according to package directions. While still hot, pour the sauce over the pasta and top with parmesan cheese. Mix and serve while hot.
On Sunday night, I attended a program regarding the holiday of Shavuot, which begins tonight.My amazing friend, Nelli, hosted the program, where we discussed the Book of Ruth, one of the traditional readings for the festival.
The story of Ruth has to deal a lot with her conversion to Judaism. She said to her mother-in-law, Naomi, “Wherever you go, I will go. Let your people become my people and your G-d become my G-d.” Hence Ruth became the first convert to Judaism – a particularly important point, as she is the grandmother to King David, whose descendant is supposed to become to messiah who brings peace to the Jewish people.
An important part of this story is the lesson that we should embrace the foreigner and take them in, because every person has the potential to bring forth the messiah. And yet it is worth wondering – how well do we do this in our lives? At Passover seders, we say, “All those who are hungry, come and feast.” Yet how many of us really bring people in for our seders who are starving? And how many of us really embrace the strangers in our community?
I don’t like the idea of going through the motions in my Judaism. I feel like that Judaism comes with a form of obligation. The obligation is being true to what I say during holidays, like embracing those who are in need and the person who comes into a community and may feel lost and alone. After all, what is keeping a Yom Tov worth when you aren’t actually helping others? Shouldn’t we take care of each other?
I know plenty of Jews who fit this – they will follow every Jewish ordinance to a T, and yet when it comes to the things that we need to do, like embrace someone who is new, they turn their back. I find this very disturbing. Do they not understand that we are supposed to embrace others and not make them feel uncomfortable? Do they understand they are not supposed to embarrass? How can you say you are Jewish and not do your Jewish duty of making people feel loved and welcome?
I think of my wonderful friend Christina, who began dating my friend Paul shortly after my wedding. Paul told me before I met her that she wasn’t Jewish, but when I did, I found a girl who was so open, loving, funny, joyous and eager to embrace everything about Judaism. I took Paul aside and told him, “If you ever let her go, you would be an idiot.”
Others may not have been sure because she wasn’t born Jewish, but I knew from the moment she smiled and started singing that she, deep down, was what Judaism was all about. She even combines her Filipino heritage with Jewish stuff on her own food blog, Pinoyvey.com. It’s a recommended read.
The truth is that we need to embrace the stranger, and never make Judaism into an exclusive country club that no one can be a part of unless you’re one thing or another. In the Shavuot story, Ruth became a convert even though, in biblical times, Moabite women should not have been allowed to be with the Jewish people. Sometimes, we have to not follow the laws of Judaism in order to be truly Jewish. Being Jewish identifies us as something more than just religious people. It should define us as those who are willing to do what’s right, not just what we are commanded to do.
Since I am currently working on other things to get ready for the holiday, I will not be posting any new recipes. However, there are tons of dairy recipes on the blog, so feel free to scroll around. I'm listing some of my favorites below. Chag sameach!
This weekend, I watched the movie “Up” once again. I got in the mood when I saw this link from The Wedding Chicks, which shows a couple using the movie as inspiration for their engagement photos.
There is something so incredibly special about this movie. Comparing “Up” to other movies in the Pixar pantheon of films, there is no question that some of the other movies do far better when it comes to telling stories and creating worlds and characters – such as “Wall-E,” “Finding Nemo” and “The Incredibles.” But I think that “Up” has something that none of the others do. And it’s that impeccable scene.
It’s track three on the DVD, and it’s simply called “Married Life.” But the truth is that it’s a sequence so perfect that I’m sure that film classes will talk about it, and why it works so well. There are no words, but rather Michael Giacchino’s beautiful and memorable score bringing back the movies of yore, and the images. Pixar understands the image possibly better than anyone, and how a simple movement can affect the audience.
And what does this sequence show? Really, it shows a life – the life of the main character, Carl, with his wife Ellie. Through picnics, coins in a jar and even in ties, it tells us everything we wanted to know about them – their joy and love, their hopes and smiles, their deferred dreams and their broken hearts. We see life in its purest form – in the little moments that show us everything we ever wanted to know about two people and their relationship.
It’s enough to make you need to break out the hankies. My cousin Karen said she cried so much during that sequence she had a hard time enjoying the rest of the movie, because she was curled up on the couch with a box of tissues. But for me, that sequence took a simply cute kid movie to something that almost reached sublime.
I don’t remember a movie from last year being so in touch with humanity and how we behave. Not even “The Hurt Locker,” the Oscar's best picture winner, came close to touching the soul and understanding people in their pure form, and “Up” did it in only five minutes. In many movies, we strive to see characters that we can identify with and be a part of. We don’t go to the movies to see fancy art – we go to feel something. It doesn’t matter what you feel, but it should reach you in a way that nothing else can.
Sometimes, when we go to the movies, we need to see ourselves on the screen. I realized how powerful this sequence was tonight simply hanging out with friends. We were laughing and eating, and eventually we all were dancing and singing to the music playing. It may not seem like much to most people – in fact, it’s probably not even a blip in the time-space continuum. But the love that we shared was so obvious in just this one moment of our lives, and it's something that I will embrace during dark times.
It’s a little slice of life that means everything in the long run. When I see Carl and Ellie, I see Ari and me, me and my friends or even me and my family being in each other’s lives and celebrating life and all the little moments that make it special, at the same time coming to terms at what may be the things that are unobtainable (I still try, although I’m not very successful, not to get a tear in my eye when I see Carl and Ellie at the doctor’s office) or dreams that we have put on the back burner.
Time passes, and people grow, move on, or come together. But some things will never change. Hopefully, among those it will be the love and the laughter we bring. We will see each other with new eyes, embrace life as it comes, and hold on to each other and go forward. I feel that this is the Jewish way of life.
So, in honor of seeing things with new eyes all while being true to home, I give you this brisket recipe. It’s a new take on an old favorite, and I happen to love the flavors, as it’s exactly what I wanted to achieve – a barbecue taste cooked in a Jewish fashion. Enjoy!
REINA’S BRISKET
2 large onions
36 cloves of garlic
1 2-pound brisket (see Quick Tip)
¾ cup ketchup
¼ cup soy sauce
3 tablespoons coffee grounds
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons black pepper
Preheat the over to 325 degrees.
Chop the onion thickly and layer at the bottom of a roasting dish with garlic cloves. Place the brisket on top.
In a small bowl, combine ketchup, soy sauce, coffee grounds, brown sugar and black pepper. Thin out slightly with water and pour over the brisket. Cover with foil.
Put in the over for 3 to 3 1/2 hours, spooning the juices over the brisket every so often to keep the meat moist. Once out of the oven, let rest for 10 to 15 minutes to redistribute the juices. Serve hot.
QUICK TIP: A brisket can be a very expensive cut of meat in the kosher world, so make sure that you pick out a good one, otherwise you may end up cooking it for even longer. The most important tip is to make sure it has enough fat – otherwise it will not get tender enough.
If there’s one thing that I love to do in the kitchen, it’s experiment. It’s the thing that drives me to create recipes and to keep moving forward.I find that sometimes I’m at my best when it comes time to improvise, due to the fact that I just have to make a dish and don’t have time to run out for ingredients. Sometimes, you’ve gotta shake what your mama gave you.
In my case, what my mother gave me was over a dozen lemons from her lemon tree. I hate buying lemons sometimes, as I find they don’t seem to last as well as my mother’s do. Growing up with a lemon tree in the backyard does tend to spoil a girl when she’s looking for pure and simple acidity.
Bringing them home, Ari, of course, asked, “What are you going to do with all of them? Are you going to make lemon chicken?” Lemon chicken happens to be a delicious chicken dish my mother-in-law makes for Friday night that is so moist and juicy it simply falls off the bone. I’ve never gotten the recipe, and any time think I remember it, I totally blow it. But I am so much better when I am not trying to impersonate anyone. I come up with my one.
See this example: The other night, I worked hard to make my lasagna Florentine (for those who already love it, see the recipe here). Made the beschamel sauce, got the veggies ready, and worked hard to layer them and create a beautiful and hearty lasagna dish that I have become known for. Then it came time for dinner, and Ari looks at me and says, “What are we going to have with it?” Crap. Just like my husband to always question my kitchen authorita (because you have to RESPECT MY KITCHEN AUTHORITA!!!). All I could think of is a salad.
I had some baby beets, some chevre with honey, and baby spinach. I had a lemon and olive oil. It was time to put it together, and it only took five minutes. I served it to Ari, and he freaked out about how good this salad was – much more than the lasagna that took about an hour and a half to put together. I didn’t believe how good it was, until I tasted it.
All the flavors were there: the goat cheese, which had that slight taste of honey, accented the beets beautifully. The lemon brought a brightness to all of it and complemented the spinach’s strong flavor. The second time I made it, I added green onions – and it added a fresh tang. Next time, I’m bringing pine nuts to the party.
It made me realize that sometimes the best food items that come out of my kitchen are those that are pulled together at the last minute – Greek Orzo was one of those dishes that came together when I was scrambling to bring something to a Shabbat dinner, and is now a signature dish. Turkey Joes seemed to be another one of those dishes that I improvised and improved on with time, and when Ari just hears those words, he seems to sniff the air like a dog anticipating a treat.
Mind you, I do have plans about what I like to make in my kitchen – right now, my ambition is to create my own recipe for a goat cheese cheesecake for Shavuot and a key lime pie. But when it comes to creating food that is the stuff of legends, maybe I’m a bit better on the Top Chef route – which means taking a whole bunch of crazy stuff out of my fridge and cabinet and just going forward and working intuitively. After all, isn’t that sometimes what food is all about?
So, on that note, here the recipe for what I am calling the five-minute salad. Enjoy!
FIVE-MINUTE SALAD
3 cups baby spinach
3 baby beets or one whole beet, roasted (see Quick Tip 1)
2 green onions
Approximately 4 ounces goat cheese (see Quick Tip 2)
¼ cup pine nuts
Juice of ½ lemon
2 tablespoons olive oil
Salt
Place baby spinach in a bowl. Cut the beets into ½-inch pieces and add, and cut the green onions into ¼ inch pieces. Add to the bowl and top with pine nuts.
Crumble the goat cheese over the top of the salad. Juice the lemon over the salad, topping with the olive oil and salt to taste. Serve.
QUICK TIP 1: I buy my beets in the refrigerated section of Trader Joes and chop them at home, as beets can be super-messy business. EHow has a great link on how to roast, boil and even microwave beets so that you can add them into a salad. Here is the link: http://www.ehow.com/how_3093_cook-beets.html
QUICK TIP 2: I find that this recipe works with a goat cheese with honey, like my chevre with honey from above. If you can’t find it, regular goat cheese will work just as well.
In the past few weeks, I seem to have been spending a ton of time in the Hollywood area. I’ve been to Hollywood and Highland twice in the past week, and drove with my parents through the area that will take me up to the Hollywood sign when I decide to be adventurous one day.
I realize that the Hollywood I know is extremely different than the one that people think of when they visualize it. When people who don’t know Hollywood think of, an image of glamour comes to their minds. It’s the one that’s unobtainable, where we stand behind the metal grates that separate us from them, not unlike last night, when I was walking through and watched “normals” eyeing the premiere of “Letters to Juliet,” with the bright lights and standout red carpet.
Then there’s the real Hollywood – the one that’s gritty and rough, yet people still flock to simply because… well, it’s Hollywood. It’s the one where people find their favorite stars on the Walk of Fame and pose in costumes as Wonder Woman, Mr. Incredible and even Snoopy. Last night, as I sat in Hollywood and Highland eating dinner, I watched as Freddy Kruger, Darth Vader and Jason were going to pick up Mongolian Barbecue.
The most interesting thing that I noted as I saw them take off their respective masks and sit to talk with each other is that they could never show that they were normal down below while people were posing with them. The truth is that it seems like people don’t really want what’s real. The fact that it’s unobtainable makes it all the more attractive.
I have noticed that people seem to be more than willing to do what it takes to make it big, even sell their souls and do horrible things. Witness Alexis Neiers, the star of “Pretty Wild,” who stole from people in order to get her own television show with her family, and is now is going to jail. They’re willing to starve themselves in order to be thin enough, have themselves taken advantage of by people in the industry or have people lambast them for being either too this or too that.
Hollywood, it seems, wants us to hide away what makes us uniquely us. It’s a cookie cutter world that many people don’t seem to fit into. If we were all to fit in Hollywood, the girls would all be size 2, the guys would all look like Justin Bieber, because that’s what seems to sell. And, if we were to listen to Newsweek, we’d all have to be straight or completely closeted – no openly gay, because then no one would believe you, right?
I remember that someone I knew once compared Hollywood – the idea of it, the concept of fitting in – to be a lot like high school. If you we’re perfect, the pressure was on you to become so. If you were strange, you were constantly gossiped about for trival things, like the shape and color of your glasses or whether you gained five pounds. The only difference? High school ended in four years.
I always wonder what would happen if I approached Hollywood, telling them that I’m kosher. Would they provide special food for me? Probably not. If I said I was a vegetarian, that would be one thing – half of Hollywood seems to be, so I’d fit right in. But the fact of the matter is that it makes me too different to actually be kosher – and actually identify me as Jewish (because even though Hollywood has a ton of Jews in it, they tend to be secular and frown down upon Jewish identity).
And then I realized that being myself is one of the most important things in the world to me. I never wanted a cookie-cutter life, and have anyone tell me who I have to be and who I can never be. I sought control over my own life, particularly over these past weeks, where I have explored the issue a lot deeper than I have in the past. I am so happy to carve my own path in this world, simply just by being who I am: young, broke and kosher. And if I get to Hollywood? They’ve got another thing coming.
So in honor of being a little bit different, here is my recipe for “oven-fried” BBQ chicken strips with sweet slaw. P’tayavon!
“OVEN-FRIED” BBQ CHICKEN STRIPS WITH SWEET SLAW
3 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into strips
1 cup barbecue sauce
1/4 cup olive oil
2 cups of plain bread crumbs
1 1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
¾ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
For the Slaw:
1 can corn
1 can black beans
1 red onion
1 cup grated carrot
¼ cup cilantro.
1 cup apple cider vinegar
3 tablespoons honey
Marinate boneless, skinless chicken breast strips in barbecue sauce and ½ cup olive oil, along with salt and pepper to taste. Combine plain bread crumbs with garlic powder, salt, pepper and ground cumin.
Meanwhile, combine one can of corn, black beans, red onion, grated carrot and cilantro in a bowl. Create dressing using apple cider vinegar, honey, salt and the remaining olive oil with a dash of garlic powder. Pour over ingredients. Allow several hours to marinate.
Roll chicken strips in breadcrumb mixture and place on a foil-covered baking sheet. Heat at 475 for 10 minutes. Serve on top of slaw.
Ari and I have been having a debate for a long time, and one that I am convinced won’t end. It is not unlike the one on the X-Files between Agents Mulder and Scully. Like their argument, both involve the paranormal. In their case, it was mainly aliens. Ours is a curse – and possibly a ghost – in our apartment.
I should probably explain this first. When I moved down to Long Beach, Ari and I had to find a place for us to live outside of his cruddy studio apartment. He kept looking, and eventually put down his name for what is now our current place in Lakewood. When I came to tour it, something seemed off about it. It wasn’t in the nicest of neighborhoods and it was not my cup of tea. But the landlord seemed nice, and the price for rent was good considering the area, so we went forward.
We moved in, much to the disappointment of both our sets of parents, thinking we could have done much better. And then, about a month after we moved in, things started taking a turn for the worse for us.
First there was the fact that I quit my job. Then there was running through our savings after I quit said job. Then I got a job, but shortly afterwards we found out Ari was losing his. Then he was unemployed, followed by me being unemployed eight months later. All of these cycles have led to disharmony when we are at home, but we always seem to find happiness and joy when we leave it. It seems to be a cycle that just doesn’t end.
You may say that it’s just a streak of bad luck. I wish it were, but there seem to be other mysterious goings-on. It’s cold almost all the time. When I was unemployed the first time around, there was a rapping noise coming from the next apartment – and there was no one living there and no one going in and out. There have been constant problems with our apartment, whether it’s been the electricity, the garbage disposal or any variety of bugs (ew). And every time I get up at night, simply just to go to the bathroom, I get the sense that there is someone else in the apartment. I have felt this way for over two years. So it may be a curse, but also a spiritual anomaly.
Ari refuses to believe, because ghosts are something that’s just totally impractical, right? And yet, I have friends who are incredibly reluctant to come into our apartment because they are sensing something there. A friend of mine once said to me, “Dude, I don’t believe in ghosts, but there’s something in your apartment.” And my dad, the ultimate believer in practicality, told me there are “bad vibes” coming from our building. So, despite the fact I am paranoid, it isn’t just me.
I was going to ask our landlord who lived in our apartment previously, but Ari said what the landlord told him that it was a guy who was addicted to drugs who had a hard time paying his rent, and was eventually forced out. I have no other history than that, but there seems to be other bad happenings in all the different apartments – like the apartment I toured, where the tenants left because of a divorce, or one of our former neighbors, which I suspected was a drug dealer – it seems like bad things are drawn to our place.
Mind you, we have some distinct advantages of living where we do. Our landlord, Dave, is amazing, and our neighbors can’t be beat. They are really nice people, and the kids are pretty well behaved. Not to mention the fact that our rent is still inexpensive and hasn’t been raised since we moved in, a major advantage we have had since we have both been unemployed. But how much are you willing to pay to live without a spirit anomaly?
Unfortunately, we cannot give up the ghost (or whatever may be lurking in our place) until both Ari and I have jobs, although right now one is enough to send me sprinting towards the hills and away from the spiritual anomaly in our house right now. But then there is the curse – it seems we are trapped at the moment. But I am looking forward to the day that we can move out of our place and move to Belmont Shore if we choose to stay in Long Beach or, if we go to Orange County, move down to Irvine. Because there aren’t any ghosts there – right?
So, in honor of my spiritual anomaly, I am dedicating to it a recipe. It’s a wonderful summery recipe. Maybe if I give it a recipe on the blog, it will leave me alone long enough to let me get a job.
MANGO-STRAWBERRY SALAD
1 package frozen mangos, defrosted
10 strawberries
1 small sweet onion or shallot
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
¼ cup cilantro
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon olive oil
Salt and pepper
Place the defrosted mango in a bowl. Dice the strawberries finely – the pieces should be ¼ inch. Dice the onion or shallot, and add the black beans.
Coarsely chop the cilantro and add to the mixture. Add the lemon juice and olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Allow to sit for at least an hour to allow the flavors to meld. Serve.
“The whole motivation for any performer is, ‘Look at me, Ma!’” – Lenny Bruce
I will not canonize her my mother as a saint – she is not, and she’d be the first to tell you. The truth of the matter is that my mother is an incredibly unique person with a very interesting life.
My mother, Jackie Slutske, was named after her uncle who died in World War II before she was born, much to the insistence of her uncle’s mother. She was one of the youngest of a numerous amounts of cousins, the first born after her large extended family moved to California. Her father, my grandfather, was still working in New York, and received a telegram regarding her birth: “Hi daddy! I’m here!”
She grew into a beautiful woman, with long black hair and a mod attitude. She was smart, but had it tough: Her parents saved all their money to send her older brother to medical school, so my mother had to pay her way to attend UCLA.Eventually, due to the sadness of being all alone in Los Angeles while all her high school friends were in Berkeley, she flunked out of school. I only found this out several months ago, to my great shock – my mother was a perfect student throughout graduate school and any other classes she took. Even the best of us fail sometimes.
After plenty of dating (and numerous visits to the Wilshire Theater to see "The Sound of Music"), at the age 21, she met and then married my father, Bob, who she has been with ever since. She kept her individuality by designing her own mini wedding dress. My mother had to develop patience with my father, who was trying to break into the theater business and who moved her to Hawaii and New York. Eventually, they came back to Southern California, and bought a house in North Hollywood.
My mother had a difficult time getting pregnant, so eventually she and my dad got two dogs – Spirit and Goblin, and they became their children. Around this time, my dad was undergoing his first hip replacement surgery, and my mother was quite afraid and upset that if, G-d forbid anything happened to my dad, that she didn’t have any children. But then she realized that it was best, as she had to spend a lot of time aiding in my father’s recovery afterwards. “Can you imagine if I had to take care of a little kid?” my mother would ask me years later. This was her way of imparting the wisdom to me that G-d has a plan – believe it or not, he/she does.
Eventually, my mother had my sister, and then me. From even before my birth, I was a handful – I was 10 pounds, 11 ounces when I was born, not to mention two feet long, so imagine my poor mother carrying me around in her belly. I was very sick as a child, with constant ear infections. Then came the fact that I couldn’t talk.
When I had to do a narrative article for my advanced magazine class, I used my mother, as she was one of the only ones that would fit with the format. I recorded her story and listened to her recount the horrors she faced with me: a doctor telling her to “stop being such a Jewish mother,” a lady at an institution insisting I was schizophrenic and telling her to check me immediately, and the constant fight she faced from many different people. Speech pathologists worked hard for years to get me to speak, but my mother fought even harder. Even at that young age, my mother was teaching me that the most important thing to do during hard times was to fight back and get over your fear. These traits became stronger when I was older, but I realize now that she was the one who taught me to be fearless as I went through life.
Throughout my childhood, my mother taught me, and often would bring me into the kitchen. I remember her making challah every Friday for Shabbat, and her teaching me how to make pasta and beat an egg. I would often help make the salads. We often interacted in making food for the family meal. I learned a lot about food from her. She was my main cooking teacher, so for those who have eaten my food, you should thank her.
My mother, around this time, also taught me about survival: Around the age of eight, my father lost his job in Northern California. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t doing very well. I found out only later that we almost lost our house up there, saved only by my grandparents, who helped with the payments. She eventually became the computer teacher at my elementary school in order to help pay the bills. But she always tried to better herself and keep herself moving forward, including going to a school to become a paralegal.
We moved back to Southern California, and my mother was as involved as ever. In my teenage years, this meant getting into treatment for my ADD and supposed mania. This was probably not mom’s strongest showing – the doctor I ended up with did not do right by me in so many ways. But she tried, and she wanted to help. My mother and I had many disagreements during these years. My father would always say that we butted heads so much because we were so much alike. I didn’t believe it – until I got much older.
She also worked at the Shoah Foundation, and she faced many different demons as she explored and worked on testimonies from different people regarding their Holocaust experiences. My mother somehow did it all and made dinner for us. She faced horrors throughout those years – the horrors of the Holocaust and the horrors of facing an out-of-control adolescent who she didn’t know how she could help (just as an FYI, that was me).
Eventually, as with most adolescents, I grew out of that terrible phase and it was time to break away. I left the nest and headed out, and I found that my relationship with her improved dramatically once I started exploring the world. I guess some people just aren’t meant to live together for that long.
I watched as my mother faced tremendous struggles even as I left the house, including caring for her ailing parents. Nothing was more difficult than watching her face their deaths all while trying to make them as comfortable as they could be. She did a lot of this by herself, as her brother was always too busy. The fight that my mother had in her, the determination to do what was right despite the fact that it was one of the hardest things to do. Yet, she still had a sense of humor: “Reina, when it’s my time to go, just send me and Lucy out on an iceberg with a tuna fish sandwich. But you have to make the tuna.”
She could have tried to let someone else handle it, but she felt the obligation. It was one she felt as a child – she would tell me stories of having to stay home sick, and her mother would wrap her up in a blanket and drive her and her ailing grandmother to the free clinic to wait for the doctor to see Grandma Luna. She took the lessons she learned as a young child and applied them to her life and how she lived it.
Recently, she finally decided that it was time to take care of herself. After years of looking after me, my sister, my father, her parents and everyone else, she is getting into shape and figuring out how to remain healthy for many years. She is now keeping a blog of her own – the Frog Blog, actually – and hopefully she will find life-long habits to follow.
Although I now live far away, my mother is a constant source of advice and support. It meant the world to me Thursday night when she came down to the JCC to watch me teach my class. She makes me realize how far I’ve come down my road. She had that sparkle in her eye as the people around me acknowledged me and appreciated what I was doing.
But the truth of the matter is that my mother inspired me to become the woman I am today, complete with the strength to go forward and the determination to never give up no matter how difficult people may make it for us. She taught me obligation to family and making sure that I had a commitment to it. But above all, she and my father both taught me to be true to myself. I told her the other night that I was reminded of it because she gave a speech when she was the membership director at our temple growing up, and she quoted Musafa from “The Lion King.” I remember people laughing when she said she was quoting that movie, but becoming silent when she said the quote, “Remember who you are.”
We had an interesting ride, and it’s one that will continue for quite a while. But I hope that my mother understands how much I love her, despite the craziness, despite the difficulties and the fights we had. I am so proud to be her daughter, and happy when she comes to visit and I get to introduce her to all the different people I know.
So, in tribute to my mother, I am giving her this song that she loves. I hope it will say all the things that I can’t. Happy Mother’s Day.
As many of you know, I am descended from the Jews of Spain (at least on my mother’s side – hence my label of half-breed) who were either forced to convert or leave their homes in 1492. Many chose to leave, while some decided to hide the fact they were Jewish, practicing in secret – these were called Conversos (it used to be Moranos, but it has been changed, as Moranos means pigs). There are still stories of families in Spain today who are finding out that they were, at one point, Jewish.
Now, over 500 years later, it is amazing what has been inspired by the fact that we were forced to change our ways or put into exile – particularly when it came to culinary traditions.
I am inspired in part by my friend Sean, who told me the story of paella, a traditional Spanish dish of rice, saffron and a variety of unkosher meats, such as mussels, shrimp and chorizo. It turns out that this is not a coincidence. This dish was invented by the Conversos of Spain, so authorities would not suspect them of being Jewish and not investigate them further.
For those Jews who decided to leave, they moved to similar climates, such as Greece, Morocco and Turkey, where my family hails from, so their diets weren’t changed as dramatically. However, the difference in the diet of the Sephardim is very obvious to the Ashkenazim, as there is a lot more emphasis on dairy and fish. My family did eat meat, but it wasn’t as frequent as a fish dish. Also, there was a stronger emphasis on fresh vegetables, eggs and cheese.
They combined the flavors of their parts of the world with the traditions of the Jewish people. For example, for a fish dish that was served on Friday night or for Shabbat lunch in Greece and Turkey, they used the fresh fish that was caught near their homes and turned it into pescado con huevo y limon, which was served cold. The Moroccan Jews served meat, particularly for festivals, but they used the flavors that were around them, from the dried apricots and sour cherries to the variety of spices, to make their meats special.
We took our flavors with us wherever we went, even to America, where the concept of Jewish life up until very recently was viewed almost exclusively as Asheknazi. It would make sense – out of 7 million Jews in the U.S., it’s estimated only 500,000 are Sephardim. The concept of the Sephardim was not embraced as much (some even claimed we weren’t actually Jewish). It’s only been recently that the picture of Jews in the United States has changed. There is a ton of diversity, particularly here in Los Angeles where Jews hail from all over the globe and are of every skin color and race.
There is also the fact that the way we are looking at food is changing, and every person I know who is in the kitchen doesn’t want to just make brisket all the time. They want to experiment and try new things. Hence, the Sephardic way of cooking provides some fresh perspective. They love the fact that we have the Mediterranean diet working for us – filled with good fats yet good flavor. Combined with the fact that we provide a little history behind it is worth it. Our food is taking the beauty of the past and combining it with the relevance of today. It’s the Sephardic way of life.
It’s possibly one of the reasons why I stepped up to the plate to host a Sephardic cooking class today at the Alpert JCC in Long Beach. I think that it’s so important to share this food, to share our history and to share our lives. The truth of the matter is that when I will be cooking, generations of people will be standing behind me, knowing that our time has come at last.
So in honor of that, here is the recipe for biscochos, the traditional Sephardic cookie I will be making today. It’s the best when enjoyed with a cup of coffee. Enjoy!
BISCOCHOS
4 eggs
¼ cup milk
1 cup plus one teaspoon sugar
½ cup vegetable oil
4 ½ cups flour
4 tablespoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup sesame seeds
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Beat the eggs. Set aside four tablespoons of egg. Add the milk, sugar and vegetable oil. Combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Add a little at a time to the wet mixture, combining each time.
Once it forms a smooth dough, roll strips of dough into ½ inch diameter. Cut each length into 4 inch pieces, and bring the ends together to make a circle. Slice the edges of each circle every ½ inch, and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Add 1 teaspoonsugar to the remaining egg and brush on the cookies. Top with the sesame seeds.
Bake for 15-20 minutes, then broil for approximately 1 minute to brown. Take them out of the oven and allow it to cool. After 5-10 minutes, put the cookies back in the oven to dry out. Serve with a cup of coffee.
Quick Tip: There are variations of biscochos that have lemon or orange zest. I’m sure vanilla extract would add a great flavor to the cookies.
While I had an amazing experience at the Daily Titan’s reunion on Saturday, going to Los Angeles on Sunday for some wonderful Jewy-ness was not exactly the most thrilling adventure.
Perhaps I should paint a picture of the contrast between the Jewish community near where I live versus the one up in Los Angeles. In Long Beach/Orange County, there is a wonderful air of friendliness. If they don’t know you, they want to know who you are, where you came from and everything about you. You are immediately drawn in and invited to birthdays, parties and different community events. My friend Inbar has always said it best: We are a family here. When I was working, there was nothing sweeter than coming in on a Friday night and being embraced by everyone as I walk in the door for a Shabbat dinner. It was the most perfect way to end the week.
And it’s not only the younger people – at the OC Israel Expo on Sunday, there were greetings and love all around. It was one big giant family reunion. People were courteous and caring, even if we were just in line for the bathroom. It’s a different feeling down here, where we try not to be against each other as much, but try to work together. Must be something in our drinking water.
Then you go up to Los Angeles. There is a dramatic contrast. Mind you, I have tons of Jewish friends who live up in LA, and they are amazing people filled with warmth and love, such as Estee and Eric Rosen, Aryeh Powers of MyKosherLA, my favorite lady from Paraguay, Alexandra, and Danny Shabtai, who moved up to LA to open his business. And how could I forget the amazing Booksteins? But they are few and far between.
One example? I was standing in a circle with my friend Rae, who is introducing people to a couple. The guy in the couple takes one look at me, turns to the woman he’s with, and says, “Let’s go walk around.” Burned.
Then there was my friend Stephen Nagy, who said he stood in the same spot for 45 minutes, and not a person said a word to him. He told me that that would never happen in Long Beach – and he’s absolutely right. No one at a Long Beach event would go ignored. Someone would introduce themselves to that person immediately and try to get them involved.
The truth is this: Good luck getting anyone on the LA scene to talk to me if they didn’t know me. Cliques of people stared at me during the event, wondering where this freak in the purple dress came from. I don’t usually like to leave a party, but I turned to Ari at one point and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Jennifer, who carpooled with us to both events, said it best: “These events are to see and been seen.” There is no mingling among all the groups, and there is no warmth. There is joy at seeing your friends, but none in trying to get to know anyone else. When I try to be friendly and talk to them, an eyebrow is raised with cynicism.
I don’t blame anyone for this – it’s just the people. Certain events can only be as good as the people who attend them. But I don’t want people to look down at me because I’m not as religious, don’t look as wealthy, I’m not as skinny, or whatever the factor may be that causes it. I don’t go to events to be judged. I go to have fun, network and meet new people and make new friendships. It’s what I’m all about. And that’s why, when it comes to my Jews, I like them with a slice of Orange County… or Long Beach.
So in honor of those amazing Jews of Orange County and Long Beach, this recipe is for you. P’tayavon!
LENTIL SALAD
1 pound cooked lentils, chilled (see quick tip 1)
1 red pepper, diced
1/2 cup diced sheep’s milk feta
1 can corn
1 can black olives
3-4 green onions, sliced
Light balsamic dressing (see quick tip 2)
Chopped parsley (optional)
Drain the lentils and place in a large salad bowl. Drain and rinse the corn and olives. Slice the olives and add that and the corn. Add the diced red pepper and green onions. Add the feta last and mix together gently. If serving all of it immediately, add the balsamic dressing and parsley. If not, wait to add before serving.
QUICK TIP 1: I usually buy my lentils already cooked. But if you want to make your own, there are many different varieties to choose from, but green and brown are probably your best bets for a dish like this. You’ll find them dried, so before you cook, go through them and make sure there are no little rocks or any damaged lentils. Cook at a ratio of 1 ½ cups of water to 1 cups of lentils. Season the water with herbs or cook it in broth, but do not add salt – it will toughen them. They should be boiled for 2 to 3 minutes, then simmered for about 45 minutes, tasting 10 to 15 minutes before the end of cook time to make sure they are not overcooked. They should be tender but firm for a salad like this.
QUICK TIP 2: Balsamic works well, but I find that a honey mustard does some wonderful magic for this salad. Whatever you choose, make sure that it is slightly sweet, as it will bring out the flavor of the sheep’s milk feta.
This weekend was an insanely eventful one, but the greatest thing was heading back to the Cal State Fullerton campus for the 50th anniversary of my campus paper, The Daily Titan. Some of my best college memories were in this crazy newsroom, filled with wacky personalities and hilarious antics between the editorial and advertising staffs. And members of the paper from the '60s through the '00s were all there to represent.
I walked across the campus with my friends from when I was on the Titan, looking at all the crazy new buildings that have been developed since I left campus (complete with the Student Recreation Center and its rock wall).But coming to the Titan Student Union was like a homecoming – reminding me of days even before I transferred to Cal State Fullerton, when I was competing for the Journalism Association of Community Colleges. I felt as if I had never left my beloved university.
I entered the Titan Theater, where I had gone to watch movies on campus when I was in my junior year, where there was a panel happening. They were, obviously, talking about the horrible job situation that’s been going on in the journalism world. The New York Times writer that was moderating the panel, Mark, was mentioning the layoffs that recently took place at his paper, whereas Daniel, a writer for Reuters, discussed all the great job opportunities in the financial markets.
But then Terry, an editor for AP in Central Florida, said something that made a lightbulb flash in my head.
“There will always be a market for storytellers,” he said in his deep baritone. “As long as you are able to tell a story, you’ll be able to go far and be able to translate it to any medium.”
Suddenly, it dawned one me. I realized I had forgotten myself in all the insanity of being jobless. I lost myself through the years of fighting to be a journalist, and being told that I wasn’t good enough and that I would never make it. I forgot that, once, I was good enough. And it was still inside me.
After all, didn’t my father always tell me that my greatest strength was being able to tell a story when no one else could? It was a sentiment echoed by one of my favorite professors at Cal State Fullerton, Professor Jeff Brody, who discovered that the girl who came barging into his class a week after it began was actually able to produce some pretty good narrative. It was a talent we worked on after that and I learned to succeed at. Not everyone liked Brody, but he was the first person to really believe in my abilities. Unfortunately, he was one of the only ones.
As I hit the real world, I found people who didn’t understand. They didn’t get it. I worked for Metro, which wanted PR pieces, not really stories. The Jewish Journal was not much better in that respect.
Then came The Signal, where on a regular day basis I was berated and treated like a piece of dirt by my boss. He said that I was horrible and that it was only because of him that I wasn’t fired. I don’t think I realized until later that this was just abuse on his part. He was later fired -- for sexual harassment.
A worse experience came at the next job, where I was also berated regularly. Doesn’t help that the boss didn’t think much of my faith, to the point where he threatened not to release me before sunset on Yom Kippur, meaning that I wouldn’t even be able to eat before the fast began. As I quit, his parting words to me were, “Oh, so I guess you’re going to be marrying some rich guy and having 20 babies.” He also told me to go back to journalism school.
I eventually became an editor, and found that when I wasn’t being constantly talked down to by a boss, but rather encouraged and told how to improve, that I thrived. But my layoff delivered such a dramatic blow that it was hard to determine whether I should continue on the crazy path that is journalism.
But the truth is that I have come to the conclusion that I should never give up. This had been my dream for so long, and I feel like I should see this dream to the end. I have always had such a hard time doing it, but in this time of change, I don’t see why I shouldn’t try now. I guess I was so sick of being treated like a piece of dirt that I gave up. But as my father always said to me, “You can do it.” I know I can. And I will never quit. I will never give in. I am going to be an editor and journalist, and I’m going to do what it takes. Mama, let’s just say that I’m coming home again, and I’m falling in love all over again.
And on that note, here is a recipe for Italian Tuna Peppers. They are pretty tasty, and a show that you can do anything in the kitchen – even rework a recipe (traditionally, stuffed peppers are supposed to be a meat and rice thing, but no more!).
ITALIAN TUNA PEPPERS
4 sweet peppers, any color (see Quick Tip 1)
1 can albacore tuna
2 cups cooked spaghetti
5 basil leaves (see quick tip 3)
2 cloves garlic
½ cup parmesan cheese
¼ cup olive oil
½ cup mozzarella cheese, shredded, plus additional for topping
Salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Combine the spaghetti, olive oil, and cheeses into a bowl and mix. Drain the tuna and put in the bowl. Meanwhile, mince the garlic and chop the basil and stir in with the spaghetti mixture. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside.
Wash the peppers and cut off the tops, removing all the seeds. Fill the peppers with the pasta mixture and put them into a deep baking dish. Put additional cheese on top of the peppers. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes until top is golden brown. Serve hot.
Quick Tip 1: Any type of sweet pepper can work here, but the main condition is that it should be able to stand up straight. When you pick you peppers, make sure that the bottoms are flat enough so that they can hold the filling and not topple over.
Quick Tip 2: This dish can work just as well with cut-up soy patties or crumbles in lieu of tuna.
Quick Tip 3: I love the flavor of fresh basil, but the problem is that you have to use it as fast as you can before it goes bad. If you don’t want to bother, dried basil can work just as well.
